


Feral and Forsaken

by Wasteland_Wonder



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Feral, Gore, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Reader-Insert, Slit Lives, Slit/oc - Freeform, Violence, bullet farmer/his guns tbh, can be reader insert, slit/reader - Freeform, to be updated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7187066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasteland_Wonder/pseuds/Wasteland_Wonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's a War Boy to do when he meets someone as fierce as he? Slit/OFC, but non-descript enough for Slit/Reader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guard Dog

In a world where nobody had anything, there was one who seemingly had two of everything. Two Coup De Villes welded masterfully together, a buzzing Citadel with two outward camps under his thrall, and most poignantly: two deformed spawn, unfit to be heirs to his skull throne. This weighed heavily on Immortan Joe's silvered brow as he strode into the Bullet Farm, deftly transforming his slight limp into a Warlord's swagger. But he couldn't hide it from one person, the one man who had been with him from the beginning. 

No surprise registered on Major Kalashnikov's face, just a wearied sneer as Joe mustered himself into the rather barren, but roomy tent. Periodic scuffling and suspicious grunts, punctuated by dry hisses sounded from one of the draped-off portions of the duck cloth and burlap enclosure. 

"Moore," the Farmer grinned, bullet shell canines glinting as Joe huffed indignantly at the informal greeting, "You're late. Thought you could smell a new skirt as far away as the Salts."

Used to K's snide snips, the made God opted to get straight to the point: "Is she fertile? Healthy?"

"Unlike the Citadel, we don't tend to root around in cunts unless we're invited." At this, Joe vocalized a roar through his horse-toothed grimace. Heavy armor clunked thunderously at his swift approach. Joe would not harm this man, his oldest - and only - friend. But she didn't know this. Burlap fluttered thickly, a sound blow rendered against the Ruler of the Wastes' transparent chest piece, and Joe stumbled back. Medallions and military honors long since forgotten clinked against the unyielding plastic, but did not overcome the sound of snarling. The slight girl that half-crouched between the opposing men was all bared teeth, unruly hair and wild eyes. 

"You tell me if you think she's healthy, Moore."

"Feral," Immortan Joe's voice wavered with - rage, disappointment, intrigue? 

"Feral? Maybe. Or maybe she's just taken a liking to me." The incensed woman did not turn, but kept her back to the Farmer, her stance echoing the truth of his words. "Found her in the Wastes a week ago. More dead than alive. Very grateful..." Kalashnikov let the assumption hang several beats, knowing how the rusted gears in Joe's mind turned. Even slid a battered-gloved hand over the healing sun-blistered shoulder of his current protector. Joe cocked a wispy brow when she did not react. "I'm thinking, with a bit of training, she could ride on the Peacemaker with me. Just as loyal as any of your Imperators, without the brain damage."

Joe's shoulders shifted back, and Kalashnikov felt the lithe muscles under his right hand tense. The soldiers' thousand yard stares extended past her. Watching, waiting. Finally, the Immortan did something he rarely relented to: he bowed out. A flimsy excuse about having one too many feral blood bags already. Joe might have had many, but now Kalashnikov had one he couldn't.


	2. The Citadel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC/reader and Kalashnikov's relationship is pretty much like father and daughter, but slightly romantic if you squint really, really hard. Not naming her - except for nicknames the others call her - to lend itself to be more of a reader insert. Slit comes in in the next chapter! Trigger warning for slight ableism. Thank you for reading. <3

"Are you sure this is," the woman, now freshly-bathed and clothed - the experience of immersing herself in so much water still caused tendrils of guilt to squeeze her heart - cast doubtful eyes to the Major, "okay?"

"It's called the Bullet Farm for a reason, girl. We aren't going to run out of ammo anytime soon," was chuckled dryly from the older man directly behind her shoulders. The fabric of the dusty military fatigues Kalashnikov donned were well-worn, a comforting relic from before the world fell to madness; it didn't feel unpleasant against her skin as his arms encased hers, holding the firearm steady in four hands. Aged, young; practiced, unsure. "Now, point the barrel towards your enemy. Stay steady, halt your breathin' and..." a forced squeeze, a piercing pop and the target plate split and flew violently in geometric shards. Again came that chortle after she gasped, roughened from years of inhaling the desert's grit. "See, pet, not so hard."

As her guardian released her, the desert wanderer appraised the weapon, tilting it to and fro a bit. Her tribe had only two guns: one carried by the leader, and another taken by one of the scavenging party. They found maybe a rusted handful of usable bullets a year.

"Still rather just fight," the expression was supplied shortly, a trait common among "ferals". She preferred silence. Besides that and her fervor for combat, the assumptions the soldier had were not met: his ward was clever, loyal and a sight fit enough to be one of the Immortan's Brides. A fate Kalashnikov had rescued her from - mostly out of spite. But it has morphed into a fatherly sort of affection. Eyebrows quirked up, as did her hands, balled - an attempt to explain her curt statement. This earned her a sour scowl before he briskly relieved her of the grey pistol.

"Right, those claw things we found on you. And don't go waving guns around, girl!"

Her head bowed under the weight of his disappointment, "Good for climbing. Killing."

"Fine," was relented with a grunt. K had begun stroking the gun's still-warm barrel absentmindedly. He did that a lot. "But you're at least carrying a snub-nose!"

\---------------------------------------------------

For months, Kalashnikov tutored the strange girl in the ways of war. How to tourniquet, to use cover and which points in the body would yield the greatest bloodbath. And unfortunately, less-than-enthused lessons on the Immortan's world.

"Needs an Heir. The three grown boys he has are all fucked. Scrotus is fucked in the head, Corpus is fucked in the body. And Rictus is just plain stupid. He's got two right beauties knocked up now. One's pretty far along. But that's no guarantee. That's why he wanted you - young, pretty thing you are. Soon as he heard about you I'm sure he thought you would do the trick. But he doesn't like Ferals."

"Ferals," Was echoed. It seemed to be on everyone's lips around her, but she still wasn't sure exactly what they meant.

"Thinks you'll rip his throat out the moment he's on top of ya."

"He isn't wrong," her toothy smile unnerved Kalashnikov. But he couldn't blame her, even if the Immortan and he were friends - Kalashnikov had never appreciated the thought of those innocent girls trapped up there, being used. The wired avidity in her bright eyes was back. Where had he seen that? Ah, yes:

"War Boys," he muttered, then turned crisply in place, "That's who we'll be seeing today. They look like death, but don't underestimate them - they can surely deal it." The Major was clothing himself, dressed impressively in new-shined boots and thick bullet bandoleers. His ward - nervous, he could tell - adorned him with the final terrifying touch: his headdress of brass tapered cartridges. "Stay close."

"Of course, K."

\---------------------------------------------

Shuffling of boots and slaps of unprotected footfalls bounced back and forth across the maze of rough-hewn stone halls. Kalashnikov of course knew the way, but the cluster of Imperators flanking them made it nigh impossible to go even mere inches outside of the course. She rubbed a thumb nervously against the cold steel blades fitted and gloved about her right hand. Several of the guards stiffened, grunted. Cause and effect.

"Easy, pet," half comfort, half warning, "Almost there."

Just as the Major predicted, they were soon before two sizeable chunks of stone, acting as doors. Swathed in more of the pale, lanky warriors. One of them, brow shining with soot, informed the duo that "no ferals are allowed in the Immortan's chambers." Kalashnikov made a stubborn sound of complaint, spat, and told her to wait.

"But, K, you said -"

"I know what I said, girl. The old bastard isn't going to do anything to me," he promised, her tension visibly lessened. Slightly. "And these Boys know not to harm one pretty hair on your head," again he was cradling a gun, patting the protracted, thin barrel. Still not completely relieved, the Farmer added, "Boys, take her down to the ring. You can watch 'em take the piss out of each other." As he had guessed, intrigue and a glimmer of glee showed on her face.


	3. A Meeting

A thick aroma hung in the air: sweat, blood, clay paint. It did not smell bad to the newcomer. But it was the sights that thrilled her - the many tangles of bodies were alighted by the harsh Wasteland Sun peering in through a massive hole in the side of the Citadel, the combatants protected by the thick coats of muddled white clay and Aqua-Cola. But not protected from each other. For what she assumed was simple sparring and practice, there was a surprising amount of red and black. Old rust smears across the floor, crimson ribbons flitting through the air from punched mouths and the cherry of angry lacerations. Black shadows danced to match their owner's skilled yet unrefined dance, savage eyes rolled in sooty sockets as dark bruises blossomed underneath. Her own pupils dilated, the inky dots flicking from one Boy to another.

Unbeknownst to the avid spectator, several Boys on the sidelines eventually noticed her, ducking their bald domes together to pass guesses back and forth, others trotting over to their buddies, lancers, drivers. But the sparring warriors did not falter. Several of the ghostly males wandered towards her, the accompanying Imperators moved closer before the curious onlookers registered in her field of vision.

"Why aren't you with the Immortan?" A brawnier one queried simply, the dried blood coating his lips crackling with the words. She did not notice, right away. Words like "bloodbag", "new" and "Breeder" were tossed about. The last caught her attention: Kalashnikov had spat the word several times in reference to Joe's captive Brides. Casting her eyes to the steadily-growing group, she sneered a "what?"

"Ain't you a breeder?"

"No! Never!"

"Why not?" The brute directed this to an Imperator to her right, "Looks healthy, young. Even shiny." Pallid heads bobbed in agreement. "Shiny" was murmured near-reverently.

"She's... feral," the Imperator sounded unsure, questioning. Eyes lingered suspiciously on her now. Why shouldn't their Savior have all the Wives the Wastes bore Him?

"She talks!" The woman, tired of being spoken about like she wasn't there, decided to show the musclehead how Feral she could be. Launching herself at the man, a fist glanced off his powdered cheek. Then her head met the floor, his strength easily downing her. Through the ringing in her ears the fallen girl heard screams of encouragement ripping through the crowd. For who? Stumbling up, the launch-and-punch method was attempted again with better results: streaks of fresh vermillion mingled with the specks of gore on his dry lips and he let loose a stream of expletives. Taunts and jeers reigned down upon the typically-untouched Boy's wounded ego; in a rage she was flung to the floor, punch after punch finding a pained home in her face, chest and ribs. Vision going red - literally and figuratively - her second successful punch crunched against his windpipe. Hacking coughs and growls reverberated as they tossled on the floor.

The guards stood idly by. War Boys, even Imperators, were not ones to stop a good fight. This carried on a handful of minutes until both opposers were heaps on the floor. When they righted themselves, she flashed a wicked grin of ruby splotched teeth at him, and he returned it. In War Boy culture, an enthused scrap could make comrades out of bitter rivals. She passed more time waiting for the Bullet Farmer by shortly answering the constant chatter from the War Boys. Two sat aside, for now.

"Think she's like Furiosa?"

"No, Nuts."

"Then what is she? Not a Breeder, not a Bloodbag," at this, Nux's gravelly voice edged towards disappointment. The sickly driver was needing hookups to the caged assistants more and more, with few to go around. Bouncing back quickly, a shoulder angled in towards the ever-crabby lancer, "One of us?"

"Dunno. Fights like one of us." A sneaking smirk tugged at the matte staples and knotted scar tissue. Rolling broad shoulders back, Slit stood and stalked towards the topic of their conversation, Nux barking out his name once, met with, "Let's find out!". Overwhelmed, she had wandered to the edge of the makeshift ring. Tenderly she probed at the many welts, and bruises forming - her voice ragged from the abuse on her throat. But, the battered one took some relief in observing newly-formed scuffles.

"Not bad, not great, but not bad," Slit greeted confidently. She cut a look to him.

"Think you could do better?"

"Yeah," sinewy arms folded across Slit's rather impressive chest, his challenging grin like an ebony gash in his face. "Throttle ain't much of a match." She scoffed, pink mottled her collarbone and neck. Annoyance and embarrassment - she could have done better. 

"What? He shredded you just last week!" Nux prodded. Slit huffed and immediately looked for an out, mismatched eyes sighting her still-unbloodied metal claws. He indicated the apparatus with a jerk of his sooted brow.

"Why didn't you use that? Real chrome." She further pinked - in pleasure, this time - and pointed fingertips fondly prodded at the chipped metal. He stared at the contact, an alien feeling winding its way around his thick throat. It was then Slit realized he had never been this close to a woman; she smelled... different. As insecurity and unsuredness raises its head, Slit responded with aggression. "Wanna see mine!" Was exclaimed sharply before a thin blade sprung from his left wrist, dangerously close to her nose. Too close. Instinctively, as the flustered Lancer was bragging about how he made it himself, her own weapon flung forward, curved razor tips across the base of his neck. A choking sound echoed between them, his Adam's apple rising and falling in a flash. Nux was all surprise, and remained still. Inhaling once, twice, she leaned in a hair, his breath - rank with a chemical stench - fanned warmly on her. The same odd situation Slit found himself in moments before now dawned on her, and she responded the same: aggression. A twitch of nimble fingers sent the tips just below the surface of the skin, and unhurriedly curled downward, earning a trio of scarlet beads. Slit's pallid body shuddered.

"Mine's better."


	4. Streak

Before anything could happen, a shot pierced the simmering atmosphere. Those War Boys that didn't have a deafening ringing in their pale ears from the proximity could hear a wizened voice barking out: "Now, don't get too fresh!"

Slowly the desert girl tore her unblinking eyes away from Slit's mismatched ones. They'd be captivating, she decided, in another scenario. Daring not to glare at her superior, she settled for lowering the clawed gauntlet and about-facing to stride towards Kalashnikov. Still-wild eyes searched the Major, and found him to be no worse for wear from his meeting with the despicable Wasteland tyrant. Kalashnikov seethed as he took in her bloodied appearance. Demanding: who did it?

"I did," She answered eloquently as only a Feral could; at her commanding officer's exasperated huff she elaborated shortly: "Started a fight. Good time." The offending War Boy visibly loosened up - it wouldn't have been out of character for the Bullet Farmer to lodge a slug in his skull for such an offense. Something shifted over the War Boys: more acceptance. She had protected one of their own.

"Well, maybe I should leave you here with them," the threat was said softly, but not without an edge of a sneer in it as he hesitantly wiped away oozing crimson from her fattening lip.

"Bet you'd like that, ey, Slit?" Nux jovially elbowed the taller Boy's ribs. Surely, he had meant that sarcastically from their near-altercation - Slit took it a different way.

"What! Why?" Slit snarled, looming over him, "I'd beat her and she'd run back to the Bullet Farm! That's all!" Furious, he steered his broad shoulders towards the sparring room's entrance. Slit paused as he reached the odd duo, and was only a little nervous of Kalashnikov's bone-and-bullet scowl, "This," he puffed out his scarred chest. Why? "Is not over!"

"No, it's not," she countered, gazing at him beneath her long lashes. The desert had deemed them necessary, to keep the whipping sand from her eyes. That fire, so familiar yet unplaceable to him, made something in his guts twist. The confused Boy immediately stalked out. Kalashnikov had also noticed how much brighter her eyes were, how her body near vibrated with newfound energy. The Farmer seriously reconsidered his taunt - would she be happier here? Except for the woman's anatomy, her hair, she seemed a War Boy. Facing him - head lowered only enough to display her respect for her savior - K decided: No. A decision born partially out of selfishness, but more so of her known hatred for the made God that stalked the Citadel. Leaving his hordes of rabidly-loyal soldiers malnourished, abducting and forcing women - girls, really - to bear his deformed offspring, and hoarding the life-sustaining Aqua Cola from those who needed it most; these were only the crimes she knew of. 

Patiently she waited as the Bullet Farmer pondered, stock still. Eyes not even flickering to the various Boys who drifted about them curiously, only a handful returning to their gruesome sport. When the old soldier returned to the present, he merely gave a grumpy grunt before turning and marching out; as always, he was tailed closely by his pretty guard.

\---------------------------------------------

The interaction had bothered Slit for days. Hands shaking so he could barely thread the various beads and charms he had collected onto the twine to decorate his thundersticks and his dwindling accuracy with the weapons Slit had chalked up to his nonexistent sleep. No matter how much he sparred, pushed himself physically or got himself off in his stone bunk, nothing seemed to still the fitfulness in his mind long enough for the Boy to get a few winks in. Nux only commented when Slit banged too hard on the Chevy, doing the absolute opposite of repairing their trusty vehicle.

"Hey!" Nux barked hoarsely, thin fingers digging into the taut muscles in his partner's shoulder, brow low, "What's your problem, Slit!"

"Nothing!" The lancer ground out without thinking, knuckles rubbing at his tired eyes. He's done this so much the clay had been wiped clean off of them, leaving them pinkish nubs. The kohl about his eyes was smudged every which way. "Just, can't sleep." The driver's anger lessened, but only a little.

"Why?"

"I don't know, Nuts! If I did I would fix it." Beats of silence past between the two, and the flat of Nux's palm slapped noisily against five-windowed Coupe's battered side.

"I got it! It's that girl, from The Farm!" Before Slit could spit out a venomous response, Nux continued hurriedly, "You started a fight, but didn't get to finish it! Always bugs the hell out of me." Slit's jaw tensed, dome tilting to one side. That didn't quite fit in his head, but he nodded any way - something about it was right. 

"Yes, right! Let's go," Slit commented straightaway, hopping up and landing solidly on his perch. Nux's surprise was cut short by a coughing fit. Bouncing from foot to foot with a renewed energy, Slit banged loudly on the roof, "Come on! Aren't afraid to drive at night, are ya, Nuts?"

\---------------------------------------------

There was something otherworldly about the wasteland at night. The sky wasn't quite black, but the deepest Oxford blue. The moon was not swallowed up in the inkiness of the dark, and painted the War Boys' bodies nearly periwinkle with it's transcendent light. All was still, and cold. It was a blessing to Slit, whose body consistently ran like a furnace; the chilly wind rushing over his form also helped to calm the nervousness of what was to come. Slit had no plan. Steel-hued sand sprayed as the vehicle swung to a stop, immediately accosted by two stalwart Farm Boys. With much awkwardness and strong gesturing, Slit informed them of his intentions. 

The lanky men retreated to the Major's tent, making their way to the recent burlap edition. They found her wound up in scratchy blankets, shivering. Her father had told her when she was little the women of her lineage had ice-water in their veins. After the information was relayed, she leaped from her passably cozy nest, stretching stiff muscles as she rapidly made way to the two shifting Citadel Boys. When Slit saw her, the skin on his chest patched scarlet, and became itchy. Blunt fingernails scratched restlessly at her approach. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she surveyed Slit: obviously he was anxious, and a grin cracked across wetted lips. She began to become warm. His brow furrowed deeply, lips tugging up into a slanted smile before he thought better of it, and returned to his typical scowl.

Opening his mouth to attempt to stave off whatever this feeling was overtaking him, the only sound that came out was a forced grunt as her body collided with his. The men had told her the strange War Boy she had met at the Citadel wanted to fight, and she took that at face value. Nux observed, with wide eyes, their bodies sprawling across the cool sand. Her nails left jagged streaks on his arms and left him hissing. Their limbs were a tangle, and blows landed on both equally, all over. Slit blustered a cocky laugh before he squirmed behind her jolting form, muscular arms going under her armpits to wrap back up over her shoulders. The snarl that emitted from her chest - he felt it, and shuddered before flipping his opponent over. Slit's knees pinned hers and she whined at the pain, cheek grinding irritatingly into the sand. She jerked uselessly a few times, growling lowly. Ground fighting was never her forte. Chuckling triumphantly, Slit snatched at her knotted hair with one hand, the other keeping her rounded hip on the ground. A bolt went through her and primal urges struck before she could shoo them aside. Her back arched nicely, and pushed the feral's ass into his lap. Both Nux and Slit emitted choked sounds, both confused, but one streaked with arousal. Wrenching her hair back, Slit shoved his hips testingly into hers and didn't bother to conceal a spirited groan, drowning out her muffled moan.

"Slit," the woman below him whimpered. Where had she learned his name? Her lips curled into the grit at his stunned silence, and she was pleased that she had listened to the Boys at the Citadel while her Major had steeped himself in silence. Slit's bulky frame leaned closer, the warmth from the War Boy radiated across her flushed back. 

"Yes?" Was rasped uncertainly. His breath came in labored pulls, before being forced from his chest in sudden pain. She had connected her elbow to his chest solidly, and in the brief respite the sly girl rolled out and up. Slamming his fists on the ground, Slit's frightened gaze snapped up to meet the woman's equally spooked one. Both had grown up in touch-averse cultures - obviously little was taught to them about sex. But, their bodies knew, just not their minds.Casting her eyes nervously over Slit's form, she suddenly turned tail and broke out into a sprint back towards the tent.

"No!" Slit called, stumbling rapidly to his feet, and repeated it hoarsely. The lancer's chest had a pained tightness in itBut she was gone, sped back into the safe, unworriesome confines of her bed. They knew they could not follow.

"What the fuck was that!" Nux's shout echoed his own pulsing thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made the Bullet Farm crew come in a bit earlier! There'll be muuuch more interaction with Slit next chapter!

It had been too long. But what was he supposed to do, have Nux drive him back to the Bullet Farm and have his body betray him again? The thought made Slit yank the thin strip of dried animal flesh taut around the Thunderstick he was adorning, tiny ceramic shards jingling sharply against each other.

"Fucking.. witch," Slit concluded bitterly. The Lancer needed a distraction. Of course, The Immortan would know what to do with the wretched Feral girl, but conversing with the Lord of the Citadel was not an option for a lowly Boy. A score of chalked domes snapped up in the garage as repetitive booming echoed through the corridors in what might be considered a rhythm. War drums. Whoops and questions were chattered back and forth as each raced through the twisting halls until they arrived at the mass of chrome and wheels: the Holy Shrine of the V8. In the breadth of the hurried journey Slit learned the cause: the self-made God was also having troubles with women.

\---------------------------------------------------

A heated argument and a possible concussion later the duo was an angry fleck of hurtling steel among dozens of others. The gore had barely been spilled before the dull, weighty hum of tread tracks sounded. With a hint of amusement Kalashnikov observed the Feral - truer to her name now - gripping with white knuckles onto the lip of the Peacemaker's grill. She leaned over enough to watch the sand disappear rapidly beneath them, chest pushed out far so her heart was closer to the battle. Occasionally she flung a stare to him, to check if her precious Major was okay - barely able to view him through the grit-blasted tresses that wrapped about her face before turning and vocalizing animalistically towards the battle.

"Buzzards, girlie! None of your climbing. Get out that pretty little thing!" The Bullet Farmer didn't hear her discontented murmur as a reply, but of course she obeyed. A pistol, perhaps? The wildling could never keep the names of various guns straight. Instinctively she knelt when K cocked and readied his Colt Buntline Specials, barely audible over the revving of the Ripsaw-turned-tank. Sidling up closer than they should have dared to the prickly vehicle, Kalashnikov's first shot found it's home through the goggles of the Buzzard nearest them - unfortunately a passenger. His Feral howled as a retaliatory strike sent tendrils of crimson stringing out of one shoulder. A tremendous amount of pain, but purely cosmetic damage for now. An agile hand snapped out and put metal and gunpowder into the offender's trigger hand. K finished the driver off swiftly, curling an outstretched palm onto the unbloodied shoulder when she clambered back to his side, tilting the desert girl so he could eye the wound. "You'll be alright, girl, just a scratch," the Major's attempt at sounding comforting always failed, especially when his ever-present frown deepened. She jerked her head in a nod, casting adrenaline-fueled vision back to the chase. With a bitter ring to his voice, K explained the barest details: Immortan's precious Wives, His most talented Imperator - all betrayed their pale King. Was that resounding bitterness due to this being thought an unimportant hassle, or towards the slaves-called-Wives who abandoned one of Kalashnikov's true friends? She did not know. What she did know is the aging soldier soon pointed out the War Rig - a treasure trove of prized women. Get onto the Rig, and stop it by any means necessary without harming a silky strand of Sister-Bride hair. Of course, the curmudgeon had a caveat, which he whispered harshly into her ear against the rushing winds, so his guards - who ultimately served Joe - couldn't listen in: "And come back alive, ya hear? None of those broads are worth your life." Another jerky nod, and a clasping of battered hands before they were rushed to the Rig's side. Before she lept, the primal growled out a: "You, too. Promise!"

Four metal claws dug deeply into the Rig's swollen belly, like a tiger to it's kill and her dirty hair fanned out in an uncontrolled spray behind her. And after "too long", Slit saw her again. Long limbs swinging up to rest her atop the speeding fortress, a toothy snarl pulling at those lips he had found his mind wandering to so often -even the blood looked damn good on her. Confusion swept over her upon seeing the small band of War Boys, cocking her head at them; the Boys mirrored her. Before any inquiries could be exchanged, but after the last of the Buzzards were buried into rust-splattered sand she spotted Slit. The sneer warped into a rabid grin, one that instantly yanked the Lancer's dark mouth painfully hard against the thick staples. Gauntleted fist raised, a single syllable drifted to his misshapen ears upon the ever-increasing shears of wind. It stunned Slit, though it was his name. Dazed him so that he barely noticed the backdrop against her: massive, violent billows of red, beige and deeper within endless black.

"Fang it!" Was spat out without thinking, Slit's broad palms banging noisily on the roof, before he repeated the phrase as a frenzied scream. He had to get closer to her, protect the Feral from this confusion. Find out what was going on, and bring back the escapees himself. Then Nux was barking orders in that graveled voice, and Slit grudgingly complied. Cutting the Blood Bag free proved to be a bad idea - much like the majority of Nux's schemes. The sand burned through the top layer of skin instantly in painful patches as Slit was hurled across the sand, clutching mindlessly at an incredibly worn boot. Buffing the sand from his eyes with the back of his large hand, the War Boy saw the dwindling procession swallowed up by the whurling sediment, a strange howl barely piercing the fray. 

Slit waited, grunted, paced angrily, and waited some more. One of two things would happen to halt the waiting: a body would be spat out of the raging storm - hopefully with blood still pumping and breath in it's lungs - or the War Party would intercept him. And hopefully not abandon him for failing. Chewing on his calloused lip, Slit prayed for the former. 

\---------------------------------------------------

She could feel it: the leather of her armor hardening, curling up where there were tears or holes. The aroma of the hide baking wasn't unpleasant, what was was the heat scorching the stow-away's bare arm. Burning hair, sizzling flesh. Extended whines couldn't be heard over the whipping winds, and the churning motor that she could feel in her rattling bones as she clung to the underside of the Rig. Eyes rolled back uncontrollably, lashes fluttering as her body dared to betray her and cast the loyal one into unconciousness. It was too much: the pressure, the wind, the searing of her flesh, and so many sounds. She was now gladdened that Slit had been flung out rather than be consumed in this hell. In her last conscious effort before being forcibly lulled into blessed darkness, she buried her claws deep into her armor - twisting this way and that deeply until it was solidly pierced - so she would not let go.

 

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Pounding explosions that rocked what she slung to awoke her, her gasps shrill and painful. The skin on one arm was decorated with colorless bubbles, surrounded by weeping crimson. Through her free sobs the attack hound noted they were through the storm. The desert girl had to move, and she did, somehow making her way to wedge herself into a crook near the rear of the massive machine before clumsily pulling her way up again. Instigating a fight during a fight wasn't the best choice, but it was her only one. Dropping to all fours, she snarled as flames blossomed around her, springing up only to strike back a thrown grenade. Wild cackling ensued when it successfully blew back in the attacker's face. 

Over all the other sounds in the firefight, Max's ears chose to pinpoint this, and he shook. Was it a hallucination? He had to check. Against Furiosa's screamed warning, the deposed cop threw open his door, firing rounds into a nearby Rock Rider. Once reasonably clear, he gripped the Rig tight with one hand - alien warmth seeping into Rockastansky's heart as several smooth hands clasped onto his hand, his arm, his leg; it was not long-lived. Max's entire body chilled as one biker roared over the vehicle in an impressive aerial feat - his only reward: four curved blades through his throat. A spray of red haloed the warrior who struck the well-placed blow, and her pleased laughter was cut short. Feral eyes easily detected movement. In a savagely fluid motion, she dipped down as her boots propelled her forward - expecting a shot that never came. This new woman had struck down an assailant, perhaps she was here to assist, like Nux? That hopeful thought vanished as the strange one dropped suddenly, then used all her energy to close the short distance down with a leap. Her shoulder smashed with a crack against the door, but her scorched arm wound through the open window securely, keeping the amateur acrobat anchored even as a bullet clipped her ear. Roaring, she brought her talons down upon his shoulder, hacking several times in rapid succession before cold-cocking him across the jaw. Instinct took over, and the Road Warrior's meaty fist collided with her chest, winding her. But still she held, eyes gleaming with a fire that resonated briefly within Max before there was a dazzling glimmer and his gun was neatly thrown back into the Wastes. Furiosa finished the last of the Riders, whipping darkened eyes back and ready to end the skirmish, when the back door flung out. It smashed against the Feral's side, loosening her grip. Wild eyes rolled to find the surprise source. Toast's mahogany eyes glared back at her, and though the gaze was strong, Kalashnikov's lapdog found herself taking in a new sight nearby: a rounded belly. She blinked hard before the butt of a rifle collided into her forehead, finally sending the snarling, burnt mess reeling back. Her agonized body cartwheeled through the air before smacking into a minute dune. 

As the Gigahorse tore past, the Immortan Himself heaved a sigh for the nameless girl, now only a bloody slump on the ground. Watching her fight, he had been right in his assumption not to wed her. Too feral, to dangerous. What she could have done to his previous girls! Though she would have made a fine Imperator. 

Kalashnikov was going to be pissed.


	6. Burning

The elders of the scanty band of cliff-climbers turned scavengers - and yes, occasional raiders - rarely told the stories of the olden days, of when many lived in comfort. Food, shelter, water - all accessible... more or less. She could not understand; when had there been a moment where discomfort, pain or sorrow not plagued her? Battle. Those rare skirmishes scrabbling over a half-full canteen with a lone wanderer, pushing back a small throng of attackers that attempted to usurp their resources in the dead, cold night. Everything was reduced to her next move, her opponent's next move, and adrenaline. It was uncommon for the feral girl not to have a gleeful grin splitting her face when blood adorned her. Maybe that's why the others looked at her with far-away eyes. 

While her whole body ached, it was always somehow surprising to find in just how many ways pain could manifest itself: a heavy hurt in one shoulder, heat prickling in tiny but constant sears through her arm, an ebbing hole in the other shoulder, muscles made sloth from overuse. All these forms crescendoed as her body snapped instinctively up and a rough cry was torn from chapped lips. As her eyes adjusted, they sought out information: it was likely midday, a battered and apparently stolen Rock Rider bike stood guard nearby- a shaggy fabric had been cast off in her hurry, but most importantly, she was alone. The sigh that formed sounded more like a death rattle. Crouching, she swooped the supposed Rock Rider garb over her shoulders before shuffling to the bike, quickly scouring it for goods with dirty fingers. A canteen was lessened a few needy gulps, grenades were experimentally poked and ratty binoculars were yanked out. She grunted sourly as she realized one side was shattered, but the abandoned girl pressed her shaking back against a sizable outcropping mostly compiled of rusted metal and haphazard cement chunks. Better than nothing. A quick sweep revealed no immediate danger in sight, but also no hope. Where was the War Party, the Rig, her Major - surely he had been the one to save yet her again -

"Ah, you're awake - argh!" The sandpapery voice that came from the side of the pile of scrap was halted as the wasteland banshee shrieked, chucking the binoculars with as much force as her depleted muscles could muster. In a burst she attempted to flee, but her legs didn't agree, sending her spiraling out across the sand. After some choice names being cursed at her, the mass of white and black chalked muscle stuttered in front of her, a pitted snarl pulling at bloody staples, but his hands were raised half-heartedly. "Hey! I didn't drag your hide all the way here to have you -". Again, Slit was interrupted as his current burden stumbled to him, half collapsing and half embracing him, chattering more quick words at once than he had ever heard the wildling utter.

"Okay? What happened? Did we win? K - where's K!" Stock-still muscles were clawed at, as if she could bleed answers out of the War Boy. Slit hissed and snatched her wrists.

"Stop that!" In her frenzy, she hadn't noticed. How could she not? Raw pink crested with scabbing, leather like blackness and dotted with sallow blisters. Blood. Over too much of his body. In shock she hesitantly opted for examining the scabs now under her nails instead of meeting his discordant eyes. "Don't look like that," the harsh demand pulled patches of damaged skin on his broad chest. Pity was not accepted in the Wastes. Their eyes met for a long moment before hands not used to ever being gentle ghosted over rough forearms, and gently coaxed him into a sitting position. With a second thought, she cast her makeshift shawl down and with several jerky nods the burned man laid upon it, trying to disguise winces. Somehow, she was the better off of the two and if she didn't act swiftly infection could take him. For some reason, the Gunner girl didn't want Slit to die. Eyeing her questioningly, he observed those roaming eyes twitching about, gore crackled hands clasping and unclasping as she wracked her brain, before one angled towards him unsuredly. 

"Stay."

"What? No! I don't take orders from you!"

"'m not going far," with that she hobbled around the scrap heap. Not like Slit could really argue with her - it was a wonder he had been able to haul both of their war-torn bodies this far. The blessed few seconds of rest lulled his body into blackness. Unphazed, she roamed the rolling sand for the next several hours. 

As when she awoke, the Boy was alone when he finally came to. But not for long. In she scrambled sluggishly, falling to already scraped knees and adding small handfuls of parched twigs to a smoldering fire. From the few deep pockets of her shredded shorts were dumped pieces of prickly cacti, and a tough-looking fruit Slit didn't recognize which were promptly smashed onto a flat rock the girl had hauled towards the fire. Watching her shoulders work vigorously to mush the pulp, he vaguely wondered why females were largely restricted from joining the Immortan's unending army. This one was strong, resilient - and helpful, he noted as a hunk of cacti dropped beside him, followed by her own body. 

"Stay still," could hardly count as a warning, as a chilly goop was smoothed across one pectoral in a broad swipe. The thin layer immediately soothed with it's coolness, and tingled not unpleasantly. Slit out a low murmur and an inquiry. "Something to help. Keep infection away," was the Witch of the Wastes' answer. His grunt was less than enthused, but he stayed down. Even when she twisted upward to stand, orange flickers from the fire flitting across her in the dimming dusk. With no grace, she stripped all clothes from her torso: a dark scarf, leather jacket and a worn undershirt. Arching a hairless brow, Slit then put the back of one broad hand to it, testing for the heat or sweat to indicate that this was a fever dream. Gathering the discarded garments in the crook of one elbow, she then pulled her trousers down over muddied boots, choosing to keep on her woolen socks and slight underwear on as well.

"What're you doing?" Slit croaked, not as much due to her nudity as when the warrior laid beside him, sidling up close until they were mostly skin-to-skin. Awkwardly she arranged her shucked clothes over them and wrapped her arms gingerly about the Boy. Nudity was not uncommon among the throngs of War Boys that infested the Citadel - it would be hard to avoid it - but touch? Touch was reserved for fighting, killing. 

"We have to share body heat. Freeze to death otherwise." The Outback could be damn near pleasant some nights, but the temperatures this time of year were edging dangerously close to the freezing point. And she couldn't add any more risk to Slit's open wounds garnering infection, or him becoming sick. Of course the kamicrazy one was used to sleeping on frigid stone slabs, but the inside of the Citadel was sheltered from the harsh winds. Add to that the amount of frail bodies housed within, and the fact that the Boys' quarters were stationed directly above the garages - which always had several fires blazing with heat - it was comfortable, temperature wise. He had never had to worry about succumbing to cold there. If it wasn't for the body that wriggled uncomfortably against him, his mind would have wandered to the Immortan. After a certain point in the chase, Slit had sped off on his own and hadn't seen what happened to his beloved leader. Surely he was okay - he was a god, after all. How could he not be? The same thoughts, but about an entirely different man plagued the Feral's mind. Again, only briefly.

"Right," Slit settled reticently and after a beat, curled an arm slowly over her scarred back, shifting her closer to his chest until he could feel hardened nipples and supple breast flesh rub against his sternum. Biting out a curse, he internally bemoaned his injuries - they couldn't get any closer without irritating injuries. His crimson eye popped open, and studied the girl beside him with a misshapen pupil. His forehead crinkled, "Why's the moonlight turn you red? 'S it a witch thing?"

"Witch?" The Feral deadpanned, narrowed eyes glaring sternly up.

"Yeah, you're a witch, right?" He pointed to the paste covering a majority of his body, as if that was insurmountable evidence to her magickal deeds. When he received no answer save for a blank stare, Slit elaborated: "Organic never did anything like this."

"Organic?"

"The bloke who would fix us up."

"Doesn't sound like he was very good at it," Slit caught the indignant huff before it left his chest - she was right. The organic Mechanic didn't do much with his grubby hands beside hook Boys up to bloodbags and occasionally sew up their wounds - or in Slit's case, staple them up. Mostly he just left them to wallow. The Feral cast her face down, to hide the flush teeming just under her skin that he had mentioned. She didn't know why.

"You're not denying it."

"Shut up and go to sleep." At that, Slit actually chuckled.

"Alright, witch."


End file.
